


Vandays

by stripped-down-to-skeletons (and_the_devil_laughs)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, fob - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety, Bandslash, Depression, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Peterick, References to Suicide, Sexual Content, Slash, Strong Language, their relationship is undefined but come on they love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5065756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_the_devil_laughs/pseuds/stripped-down-to-skeletons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick thinks that something is wrong with Pete and will try to cheer him up. Pete is just a bit blue, but it’s nothing serious, so they take advantage of a pretty nice hotel room that they are ever fucking grateful for spending an extra day in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vandays

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to go out of my way and say that their wives aren’t mentioned and, for the purposes of not mucking up any timelines or relationships, they don’t exist (making this slightly au).

Patrick knew that, although to a lesser extent he contributed, writing lyrics could drain a person, for all that went into it. It was a process and it was built on coffee and late nights and repetition, and it wasn’t compatible with schedules half the time. Generally it took a lot out of Pete, because Pete always threw himself into it. Not always, but sometimes, it would show just how much he needed out, how he may have needed sleep and real food and less stress. He needed a break, essentially, and Patrick saw that, even when Pete was on a particularly decent day, which happened to be today. 

They played a gig some small venue that was pretty packed, and it went as well as anyone would expect (Patrick more so), with loud and awesome fans and awesome roadies and some damn fine burgers that the bar tossed into their pay for the gig. It went well. 

That was last night, and through a fortune scheduling accident, no one was particularly malicious toward the idea of having an extra day in their hotels.  
Pete, on break, never really stops writing, so there’s always a notebook and pen on him, ready for lyrics and musings and crappy doodles at 4 am. Patrick never looks into these, because Pete shares what he feels comfortable with and nothing more, but sometimes he has an inkling of an impression that whatever some of his books hold isn’t very “happy”.

He gets this feeling on days like today, when Pete, dressed like he does in jeans and some beaten up hoodie, refuses to do anything except lie about and write and not say much.

“I’m tired,” he says when asked if he wants to do anything because, come on, its their one holy day of their lives that they will ever have off and its already two pm and they never get that much of a chance to explore so and so. Pete reasons that it’s not often they get to use a real, American-made (Pete’s words) beds and it would be a waste not to use them while they had them. Andy and Joe took that to mean that it was very possible he could have a girl by at some time (they didn’t really know, it was just a guess), and it wasn’t that big a deal anyway, so they went out to find whatever god-defying food they were looking for, with Patrick saying that he’d catch up after his own plans.

Patrick’s plans were to, maybe, get a glimpse of what Pete had been scribbling to his notebooks for the better part of the day ( that is, when he wasn’t asleep) and to definitely sing for him. Patrick was still a bit awed that, apparently, Pete liked to hear him sing, no matter the venue. On stage or in private, it always seemed to bring a small (but genuine) smile to Pete. Patrick didn’t know if anything was wrong, but he still wanted to try something to perk him up a bit.

When Patrick got back to their shared room with coffee (at Pete’s request), Pete was lying face down on his bed in the shape of a cross, the curtains were pulled, and the TV was off. The door shutting made him grunt, which was a form of greeting as far as Patrick could tell.

“Get up you goof ” Patrick chuckled lightly, walking up to the table at the head of the bed. “Come on, I have coffee.”

Pete flipped around gracelessly, shielding his eyes like he just saw jesus rise. “Holy fuck! Was it always that bright?”

“Yes. Now,” – Pete reached up in the most lazy way possible, stretching for his coffee – “NUH UH no, sit up for the coffee so you don’t burn the sh-”  
Pete took a strangely lethargic lunge to catch Patrick off guard which, yes, worked very well, because it did catch him off guard. Patrick stumbled backward slightly, cursing loudly when he thought he spilled the drinks (which he didn’t, as they had lids).

“Christ, Pete!” Patrick yelled, taking a seat on the red duvet of his bed, coffee cups secure in either hand. “What good would your coffee be if it were on me?”

Pete had already sat up and leaning on his knees with his elbows. He smiled, and it didn’t quite meet his eyes and it was a little less guarded than he normally was, but it was something. Patrick forgives pretty quickly, especially for Pete, so he smiled back, fixing his fedora 

“I could lick it off you, for one,” Pete offered, and Patrick couldn’t think for around two seconds. He shook it off and looked down, to the coffee that was marked for Pete.

“It’s hot as shit, Pete, I really don’t think that’d be nice for me.” Patrick hands leans over slightly, handing him coffee so sweet it gave Patrick diabetes from making it.

“Hmm, I could just kiss you all over instead, I guess.” Pete takes the coffee and immediately puts it to the side.

“Too hot?”

“Naw, I just know how nasty coffee breath can be,” Pete laughs lightly, reaching out to take Patrick’s coffee as well, and now there is a couple of coffee cups on the night stand and Patrick is looking at Pete as their face’s come into I can probably smell your meal from last night range. However, Patrick is pretty sure his breath, were it to have smelled bad at that time, would have been the furthest thing from his mind, and the fact that he was now kissing him was the only thing he could occupy himself with. It was pretty chaste, and Pete was standing rather awkwardly while doing so.  
Patrick laid his hands on either side of Pete’s neck, resting in his hair, loosely and very softly. He could feel the beginning of stubble, but nothing significant, and sweet hell was it suddenly very warm. 

He could feel the degrees creeping up his cheeks, his ears, and he pulled back, feeling a bit too aware of himself when Pete was watching him.

Pete leaned in, but only so he could bump his head against Patrick’s fedora and in doing so, meeting his goal of knocking it from his head. “Fedora has to go,” he said in a conversational tone.

“I-I sort of wish it were on, though.” Patrick always liked being covered up.

“But you look so cute without it!”

“Thank you! But –”

“You also can’t lie down with a hat in the way.”

Patrick scooted back onto the bed when Pete pressed his hands lightly against his shoulders. The bed was pretty wide and topped with a comforter that semi-swallowed whatever was on it, and when Pete followed him, quickly pressing their lips together and pushing him to lie down beneath him, Patrick was pretty well embedded in the sheets.

Patrick opened his eyes as soon as Pete removed himself from his lips. Pete really enjoyed sitting on top of Patrick, like he was now. Patrick generally liked it like that, too, but typically he wasn’t on a mission to cheer Pete up, and if Pete needed cheering up, he definitely didn’t need to be in the position he was in. Patrick sighed, shifting his eyes to settle on the unused lamp in the opposite corner of the room. “Pete, you… well… I’m not sure right now’s a good idea for anything.”

Pete stared down at him like he grew eyebrows. “You really think that. Really.”

Patrick nods and tries to urge his dick into a state of limpness. It doesn’t work but that doesn’t really matter to him. “Yes.”

“I can’t change your mind.”

“Nope.”  
Pete picks up the Fedora, takes a look between it and Patrick like he didn’t have a clue as to what he was doing, and then it was on his head. “You sure?”

“Mmmm-hmm.” He absolutely was not, and it was pretty hard to ignore. 

“Well then. This is a really comfortable situation, isn’t it? This definitely won’t be awkward at all.”

Patrick really doubted it would be awkward, actually, considering how many times they entire band has walked in on each other jerking off – it was more of a courtesy more than anything that they even bother to wait till they had more privacy. Still, Pete was just joking, and rolled over to the side to lay beside Patrick.

“Watch the hat!”

“I swear, this thing is too much effort to keep on, you know that?” Pete tossed the thing to some corner of the room that Patrick didn’t see. 

“It’s really not, you’re just weak.”

“Pfft. As if.”

Silences have to end eventually. The problem is being the one to end it, and really, who wants to do that?

Patrick braves it and clears his throat, not sure how to start a conversation about one’s mental well-being. “So, um.” Profound insight, he thinks, struggling. “Eugh, okay, so, hear me out.”

“You have my undivided and raw attention.”

“So, don’t go and say I can’t worry about you, because I think it’s fair that I can worry about you, but I am worried about you. I… well, it’s maybe nothing, but I-I was wondering if you’re okay, cause, Pete, you seem down or tired or out of it and have been writing a-a lot more than usual, and that’s not a bad thing, but I, uh, was thinking you might have something on mind and uh, so, I’m just a bit worried, and…”  
Patrick had talked himself out of breath, and when he came back to his ability to string together another sentence, he let too much silence fill the time between that it was easier not to say anything more. His ears felt a bit warm. He was still hard. Pete’s head lolled a bit toward him and it was true, he had his undivided attention. 

“Pat, pat, pat, you’re not wrong about worrying – no, hey, it’s not like that, it’s okay,” he corrected, having seen the urgency that took Patrick. He adjusted himself to lean on one elbow and rest his hand above Pat’s naval. “I’m okay, I mean it.”

“What the fuck, then?”

“No, I just mean that… that, even though I’m … a bit hazy, it’s nothing bad, and I was going to say that you can worry your cute self over me all you want and I will love it.”

Patrick looked up, catching his eyes. “Then maybe… can you tell me what hazy means? I… I don’t know how to help, but if I just let you talk…” He laid his left hand on Pete’s, partially to keep him from rubbing circles into him, but mostly to just hold his hand. 

Pete sighed, not tired or anything bad, but like he’d had a bit too much air in his lungs for a bit too long, and the tension was freeing him and he smiled and closed his eyes because no one ever looks you in the eyes longer than a few seconds. “It just means that I’m too tired to feel real right now and that I… can’t imagine the next few months as being real… it’s mostly because we have today off. Days after concerts are really sucky, well, most of the time, but then you’re on the road and it doesn’t matter much, but when you have time… like I do know, to, I don’t know, think and experience it at the same time, it feels fake. Not, not like it’s going to be taken away, and I wake up at 17 with a fucking hangover, but more like I could… could close my eyes and stop… existing,” – Patrick held his hand tighter – “I know that’s not going to happen, but just in case…” Disconnecting their hands, he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a tiny note book, the one that was always on him and that Patrick sometimes had errant thoughts about.

“I know,” he snorts a bit, “that you know about this thing. No idea if you know what’s in it, but I’m going to guess that because you’re such an angel that you’ve never even touched it if you had the chance to.”

“I haven’t touched it, I swea—”

“Jesus, Pat, I don’t care if you did, even if you did, which you didn’t, because you’re a fucking angel, it would be okay because I’m writing this shit down for you and I can’t really think of anyone more appropriate to read this chicken scratch,” he waggles the scrappy composition book for emphasis. “I swear, you really need to loosen up. Here, relax, read it. Not all of it, but, some of it, like, here, for instance,” he held the thing open with a thumb down the center, holding it to be read at Patrick’s convenience. The lighting was shitty and so were Patrick’s eyes, but he managed.

 _“’You’re looking around and smile. But I saw you. I saw you mouthing the lyrics to Fireworks (Katy Perry). I forgive you.’_  What is this?”  
Pete laughs loudly, sitting up abruptly. “Heh, yeah, I can’t really explain it. Just a bunch of thoughts. Of you. Like, here,” he hands Patrick (as he is sitting up) the book that is opened to a page that falls somewhere in the right half of the book. _  
_

_“’You look nervous today but I have a lot of faith in you and you’re going to be great.’”_

“That was for that one the interview last month.”

Patrick couldn’t help but hold his breath, looking into the pages of Pete’s personal thought in regards to him, and only him. He needed a drink of water, but kept reading, while Pete sat beside him, chin on his shoulder, reading what he had written, the both of them radiating nervousness and acting like they weren’t.

_You did fucking great this show, you were so damn strong and fierce and confident and I loved seeing you, even if some of my lyrics made you cry. I’m sorry.  
_

_I heard you singing in the shower and I’m still amazed about it. I could have sold tickets to it.  
_

_Jesus Christ Pat, take the damn fedora off_ [no explanation] _  
_

_I try to tell you that you’re cute and you accept the compliment but I’m pretty sure you don’t believe it.  
_

_I’m sleeping right beside you right now and I’m having a hard time not drawing your sideburns longer.  
_

_I’m feeling like shit today, but it’s not unbearable, because I have this bad-fucking-ass band with me and so much music to write and, of course, you, Patrick. Still feel trashed, but it’s nothing that a concert won’t fix.  
_

_You use the guitar to hide your boners but I know better. I’ll be helping out with that later tonight.  
_

_You just spent an extra half hour talking with the lines and I really gotta say, you’re too fucking good for this world. You were so tired, but smiling so much because apparently so many little kids came to see you.  
_

_I don’t know what you’re doing to me, but I do know for a fucking fact that you’re good with lip service. It’s a damn joke that you have to sing those lyrics when they’re obviously wrong._

_You’re too drunk to remember this (I wouldn’t thing), but right now you’re singing "my only sunshine” to me right now and it’s too fucking cute, my heart is melting._

Patrick couldn’t bring himself to read some of them out-loud purely based on shock at some of the content (which wasn’t helping his pants situation), but he must half spend ten or more minutes just reading, going through pages of ramblings and notes and thoughts about him. He didn’t know if Pete was following along the whole time, either, but when he finally set down the book, he wrapped the arm facing Pete around his waist and kissed his forehead.  
Pete hooked a hand on Pat’s shoulder, leaning into the kiss. 

Clearing his throat of all the emotion that welled up and spoke gently, lips hovering without completely pressing to his hair, “Why is, you said… why is this a ‘just in case’?” 

“Well…”

“Pete.”

“In case I stop existing… it’s,” Pete sits up, sitting to properly look at Patrick, more than a few seconds. “It’s really dumb and I know that it won’t happen, but just in case, I would want you to know that you’re amazing, and have always been a fucking force of nature that I’ve never been able to make songs about. There are words, but not enough, and I thought you would need to know in case I never woke up.”

Pete could have phrased it better, and even though Patrick understood (to an extent) what he meant, that didn’t make it any easier on Patrick because, my god, what would it mean if he didn’t cry a bit at the thought of Pete not waking up? That he never stopped feeling and re-feeling all the things the past had left behind them, and not cry? He palmed both of his eyes and stained them with the fear that fueled them, because it was always going to hurt to sing What a Catch, and it was always going to hurt to relive moments in his life and think of what might have been because Pete wasn’t there, and he really should stop thinking about it because it did neither of them good and Pete was wrapped around him when he should have been doing the same for him, to comfort instead of be comforted.

No one likes these sorts of conversations, but they spark something that always catches fire. Things were, truthfully, alright – just some overdue emotions needed to be paid, Patrick reasoned, because that was what made it easy to let his dick win over when Pete ran his fingers down his spine, and breath onto his neck, and lean back so that Pete would be on top, which the both of them liked best.

“You know, I could just keep this up,” Pete grinds into Patrick’s dick a bit, just slightly, and they were pretty used to it by now that Patrick only pursed his lips a bit and  _didn’t_  moan. “It’d work out pretty well, I guess.”

“Well… I don’t know how much further is too far… I mean, this works, so if… I-I don’t know.”

To be fair, they both had very limited knowledge about anything outside of grinding and the occasional hand above the clothes, always rubbing instead of gripping or taking hold of. Teenager stuff. It worked out well enough, though, and it seemed a good place to leave it, and they were friends always, and it was still pretty confusing because love is never a clear path, and never was it the safe option.

  
Pete saw a little bit of danger in Patrick. Something less than safe. It was something about the way he was holding onto his legs, his thighs. He pressed himself with a bit more strength into Patrick, and all his energy not spent whimpering was felt in his fingers, and they were going to leave small bruises.

Pete saw the potential that they both wanted to do more, and so it was worth the risk to venture, “What if we don’t have shirts on?”

Patrick reddened to that. “I wouldn’t mind…” 

“What if,” Pete unbuttoned the first few buttons of Patrick’s button down tee, “What if I kiss everything I see?”

He could see a widening strip of skin, pale except where he was flushed with a cocktail of convoluted feelings. “Yeah, yeah… fuck,” Pete’s fingers crept over his nipples, lingering, “yes, that’s okay…”

Pete’s hips were rocking, and Patrick pressed his hands onto him. Pete kissed him softly at the lips, spreading them a bit. “This is okay?”

“Ye…yes… I’ll say something if it isn’t, okay?”

“Always.”

Pete was gentle with kissing him, like he was making sure he wouldn’t ruin his voice. He pressed a few small kisses along his jaw, butterfly kisses along his cheek until he got to his neck, to his clavical.

“Mnn, Pete,” Patrick moaned in his ear, a bit out of breath and there wasn’t much of a chance that he’d ever regain it because Pete had his hands on his underwear line. He tried to pull his ear to his lips, but Pete’s plans were exactly not having that happen and his head dropped a bit more, chuckling against his chest with each kiss. Patrick settled for his hands running through Pete’s hair, over his neck, and lord what was it about his breath that made him whimper? What about Pete made it impossible to not wriggle against his touch?

“Jesus, Pete,” and then he mumbled things that Pete couldn’t quite make out but loved to hear.  
Pete opened his lips to one of Patrick’s nipples and sucked.

“Ahnngh, fucking – hell – fuck –” And a lot more sounds that weren’t words, and his hands gripping Pete’s hair, shaking (with fear or excitement, Pete reasoned both).

Pete licked him once more, disentangling Pat’s hands from his hair and sitting up (and he happened to be sitting on Pat’s knees). He pulled his hoodie over his head. “You know, I think I like this a lot better. No shirts is pretty great.”

“Mmmhhm. Yep.” Pete had his hand on his zipper, now, and was looking for Patrick to stop him. He didn’t. Unbuttonned and unzipped, his fingers were looped around either belt loop on each side of his hips. Patrick nodded, lifting his hips an inch to let Pete expose his underwear, part of his dick’s silhouette showing through.

The both of them have obviously seen the other naked due to, you know, sharing a bus for the better part of each tour. Of course they knew what each other looked liked, what to expect.  
Context is everything, though, so both of them understood why they were so nervous, why they were taking their time, why their fingers shook a bit.

“Pat?”

“Yep?”

“You’re Irrisistible.”

Patrick snorted. “ Jesus Christ, are you going to quote your lyrics the entire time?”

“That sounds a bit passive aggressive, doesn’t it? Don’t you feel that rush in your veins?”  
Patrick had no words to say and just stared at him, unblinking, except for when Pete suddenly took hold of his dick through the thing cotton.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

“Do you sing with that mouth?”

“I swear to god, Pete –”

Quickly, he had pulled Patrick from his undwear, gripping him and not moving. Patrick bit his lip to keep from making the amount of noise he wanted to (which would probably get them kicked out). When he nodded his approval, Pete stroked him up once, and down, and it started into a slow rhythm.

“Shit, Pete, get off my knees!” Patrick managed, frustrated at his lack of ability to squirm. “Ah – just– move it – right – ngh – now!”

Neither of them were truly graceful, it was just a fact of life right that they would just have to accept, and it was evident now more than ever. He sat to the side, slicking dick still in hand, and watched Patrick while his pace increased, and he recognized the shudder in his hips and boy was it easy to make him come. He didn’t exactly do that, easing off when Patrick’s hands gripped tightly into the sheets and his panting was choked off from his attempts to be quiet because they’re in a hotel and had manners. Patrick dared to look at him when he slowed his stroking, but didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything but let him touch him like he was because it was nice.

“Jesus.” Pete ran his tight grip over Patrick, long and sort of fast and rhythmically and it could keep time to the blood pouring through their arteries, veins, the nerves that rattled their chests.

“Pete…”

“You look really nice.” The rhythm picks up

“Pete…”

“Come on,” Pete leans into his eyesight range and caught a look of hazy desperation on Patrick’s face right before he came and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the syllables that Patrick moaned. He pulled once, four times, five, six, and had taken out as much of Patrick as possible, and left him a tired and dangerously-erratic breathing and now Pete’s boner was a lot harder to ignore now that he had the mindspace to think of it.

He wiped his hand on the sheets and leaned over to kiss Patrick. “Hey…”

“Oh my god…”

Pete’s smile touched Patrick. “I have a favor.”

Patrick’s hand was grazing the path it took up Pete’s thighs, breathing calming, reaching less far than it had before. His eyes were wet with excitement and couldn’t not look at Pete. “Mmhmm?”

Pete could have come in his pants, having the fresh memory of Patrick’s flesh in his hand and the flush on his chest from working up so much. Patrick’s hands were at a zipper that was already down, a button that hadn’t been buttoned, and Pete was already lowering the hems of his pants and underwear and Patrick was waiting and had taken hold as soon as he could, and they were sitting up already. Pete couldn’t quite handle having Pat’s hands and rough fingers around him and it was comfier and safer to bury his head on Pat’s shoulder and he liked having a place to hide, so he stayed there.

“Oh god,” Patrick heard, but barely, because it was partially a hum against his skin and partially a weak cry in the middle of a sharp moan that also hummed against his skin and quickly, he was drawing out Pete’s orgasm with long and shuttering pulls. “Patrick… uhh-ah…”  
They didn’t want to talk much after that. Not because it was the wrong decision, to finally start getting their hands around each other, nor for the fact that it was awkward or embarrassing (though it was, a bit), but because they didn’t need to. They always worked well in silence anyway, so it wasn’t so bad that Pete just stayed there with his head on Patrick, staring down his body and looking at everything. Patrick wiped with stickiness on his hands on the comforter and it was nice to have Pete relaxed so he let it slide that he needed to readjust a bit. He just had one arm around him, hugging him and praying too hard that he was okay.

“I love you, Patrick,” were on his nerves, vibrating. “I’m okay. Trust me.”

“I do.”

It’s a lot longer that they remain inside – Pete made the right call: staying in and using the hotel they could, definitely beats going out and loosing steam and not sleeping. They eventually moved to dress, comfortable and sleepy and ready to snuggle because that’s what most of their relationship looked like, and so they ended up sleeping in the same bed, Patrick having had the sudden urge to sing songs to Pete and Pete not minding because it always made him smile. All the sounds to come from that man were beautiful and always leaving him with a sense of entirety in his chest that he loved.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is in a constant state of editing bc you really shouldn't write something at 4am then post it without proofreading but whatever


End file.
